


Take Two

by Myfieldnotes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myfieldnotes/pseuds/Myfieldnotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John wasn't Sherlock's first flatmate at Baker Street? Another way they could have met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Two

"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock asked not at all impatiently, when one considered the many things that were being left undone during this interminable delay. 

"Afraid so." The doctor ignored Sherlock's jaundiced look as he peeled not one but two Nicotine patches from above the bloody seven inch gash along Sherlock's pale forearm. "Unless you'd like me to get the staple gun." 

"Yes. Do so." Sherlock narrowed his eyes an instant later when the doctor made no move to retrieve such an implement, which would have had the advantage of both speed and novelty.

Sherlock huffed in impatience. Fine then. He reached over the medic and tugged his coat from beneath the orange recovery blanket they'd forced on him. He dug one handed through the pockets only to find them empty. 

"Here. Use mine." The man shifted on the short rolling stool and offered up his mobile, even as he tugged upward on his suture stitching. That was really…rather skillful. 

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. A man just short of standard. Wearing a St. Bart's white lab coat, but with no name badge. A borrowed coat then. Why a borrowed coat? He could have spilt coffee on it or forgotten it at home. But no. The duty nurse called him "Doctor" and not by his name like the rest. Therefore she didn't know him. 

He could be an imposter. 

This intriguing idea froze Sherlock for a microsecond and he cocked his head to the side. That would be new. Was he an imposter? Sent to finish the job? 

A thrill of excitement coursed through Sherlock at the idea that the man touching him right now, healing his wounds, could be part of the larger game. 

But then he deflated. No. The nurse would have raised an alarm if she didn't feel he had belonged. Especially during a night such as this. An outsider then. However only someone trained at St. Bart's used that particular pattern of mattress stitches. Very old school. An outsider known by someone at least. An extra doctor called in for the crisis. Not from another hospital. Obviously not with that leg. But from where? Something local. A clinic most likely. 

No surprises. He slid the mobile open with his thumb and fired off several pointed texts. The doctor was encircling his forearm with the final strips of bandage. Instead of a thank you, Sherlock asked for one confirmatory bit of data, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" 

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

"Afghanistan." Interestingly the doctor glanced down at his hand, the left one, even as he steadily continued to tape gauze strips.

"Thank you." Sherlock offered the mobile back, ignoring the incoming message, as he could already guess what it said. Though it did make him ask impulsively, "How do you feel about the violin? I play quite a lot when I'm thinking."

Instead of answering the doctor asked with some bemusement, "How did you know—"

"Your bearing. The haircut. You don't flinch at the crash of the carts coming in, nor the never ceasing drone of those sirens. You hear them—you're not hard of hearing—but you accept the chaos as the norm. Even for the average London A&E, a bombing at a row of flats is an event, and yet you've reacted like you've done this dozens of times before. Now where would it be normal to have mass casualties? Some place hot enough to leave tan lines on your wrists, some place with active fire. That means Afgahnistan or Iraq."

The doctor blinked several times and then straightened, coming to his feet. No doubt he would start protesting his annoyance at having been given the very thing he had asked for. Typical. 

"That was…amazing." 

And that was…unexpected. 

The doctor shook his head."Just one question, how did you ever manage to get stabbed in the middle of an explosion?"

It was Sherlock's turn to blink. Unexpected indeed. "My flatmate, Jim, tried to kill me." 

"Why? Is your violin playing that bad?" 

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No. He's a psychopath."

"Really? Did you know that before you moved in?" 

"Of course. I knew from the moment he 'happened' to overhear a discussion I was having about needing a flatshare." Sherlock added hastily. "What better way to study a psychopath than at close range."

"Right. Of course. What was I thinking?" The phone in the doctor's hand pinged, interrupting them. "Here. Must be for you." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept up his coat. "Delete it." He headed for the doorway, then stopped and looked sharply back, "How did you know I was stabbed?"

The doctor shrugged, smiling easily. "I left the desert, but it hasn't quite left me. I know the difference between a stabbing and a shrapnel wound." He held up the mobile. "And this?"

"Ignore him; hopefully a war will break out somewhere to distract him." Sherlock murmured. He looked at the other man, for a long measuring moment. "Better still, tell him I already have."

The doctor stared at him, puzzled, then glanced down at the screen where Mycroft's message waited.

GET A DIFFERENT FLATMATE—MH 

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in June 2011 for the "make one change" prompt for thegameison_sh livejournal community.
> 
> Alternate Title: Craig's List Would Have Been Safer
> 
> Random Thoughts: I'm nuts. I actually wrote the alternate viewpoint of this story from John's perspective, before realizing it needed to be the other way around. What was I thinking? Make one change should not apply to the actual writing!


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